


Scotch

by lameafpun



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Pining, Reader-Insert, more pining than a pine tree, more pining than an evergreen forest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 09:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9814040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: Some events may be a bit out of order - sorry about that





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some events may be a bit out of order - sorry about that

You craved his attention - in your own strange, roundabout way. It was a bit amusing, really. The man who had everything (except for the dear detective he just could not manage to woo to his side), the criminal kingpin of Gotham, and arguably the most dangerous man in the city. 

And you had a crush on him. A crush. God, it sounded so…juvenile. 

You tried to remind yourself of the facts, that Mr. Cobblepot could have you killed at any moment with a snap of his fingers, that he could have you tortured, that he’s killed people before and he certainly wouldn’t blink an eye at the thought of your dead body. He could go after your family. 

And yet every afternoon at ten you’d slip on the formal black vest over a crisp white button-up, pull on your navy blue chinos and shove your feet into a pair of shiny black loafers you'd borrowed from your uncle. Mr. Cobblepot ordered everyone in his establishment to wear some form of formal wear and, being a casual wearer of jeans before your job at his nightclub, you’d had to go to quite a few friends for fashion advice. 

After getting dressed, you’d hail a taxi to take you to ‘Oswald’s’. Every night at ten on the dot.

You were hopeless. 

 

Your taxi always arrived at the nightclub at 10:15. You would walk in at 10:18 and flash a smile at the guards, which they returned with a small smile and a wave, no matter who was stationed at the door. Somehow, you radiated an uncharacteristic friendliness and a general sunniness as soon as you came in close proximity to the bar. As soon as the door with the neon umbrella on it came into sight, a smile bloomed on your face that was impossible to fight. So, you rolled with it. 

As soon as you stepped into the bar, your mind came to life. The notebook where you kept inventory of all the available booze, straws, glasses and more was in your hands and the end of a rapidly shortening pencil was raised to your lips in thought. 

And then, as the night started to roll along and people started filing into the nightclub, Mr. Cobblepot would come out of his office and weave through the crowd. Greeting various nightclub goers and making more connections, no doubt. 

Between orders and brief conversations with various bar patrons, you would gaze at him, following his slight, hobbling form. Eyes trailing appreciatively over his slim figure, clad in a crisp black suit, you smiled to yourself as your heart fluttered. 

You couldn’t help yourself from being just the tiniest bit hopeful. 

 

It had been an exceptionally cold night when he’d first spoken to you, you remembered that. The encounter hadn’t particularly stuck in your mind because it had been Fish Mooney’s bar and he had only been the umbrella boy, albeit a very cute umbrella boy. The overall nervous, awkward way that he conducted himself was endearing and you’d been the one to introduce yourself to him. 

“So, um…I’m (name) and as you can probably tell” You motioned to the wall of liquor behind you. “I’m one of the bartenders.”

He had eyed you then suspiciously, like in return for the kindness you expected him to offer up his kidney. Hand fidgeting with his umbrella, he had looked away quickly. But you hadn’t. 

As soon as he’d looked into your eyes, you’d become enamored with his icy blue irises. They were unusually blue and you’d briefly wondered from which parent he’d gotten those beautiful colors from. 

“I am Oswald Cobblepot.” He halted awkwardly in the middle of some of his words and he smiled self-deprecatingly, raising the umbrella just so you could see the handle over the top of the bar. “And I am the umbrella boy.”

 

Then, he had disappeared and Mooney hadn’t hesitated with telling the entirety of the staff why. 

“He was a snitch.” The woman had declared, chin tilted up so she was looking down at all of you. The power in her voice was enough to make you piss your pants, but it was her eyes. They pierced into your own, the authority and depth she held in them pinning you in your place, cementing her power. She was the one in control, and you would be a fool to forget it. 

“And snitches get taken care of. Don’t betray my trust and don't dare think you are smart enough to deceive me because I assure you, you aren't.” 

And so you hadn’t. 

 

When you’d seen him the second time, Fish’s control had crumbled. You were out of a job, admittedly only for a day before Oswald took over, and you had settled for just wandering around the city, searching for a bar in need of a bartender. While you were walking down the street a car had pulled up to you and honked, the window rolling rapidly down. A vaguely familiar voice had called your name, locking you in place. 

“Oswald?” The very man stepped out of the sleek black car. You could only stare incredulously and mutter. “I thought you were dead - I mean, there was all that noise at the police station and stuff but I don’t know if I believed it because Fish - "

With a start, you realized you were rambling and Oswald looked slightly annoyed. Also, the man had a new look. Your eyes swept over his form, taking in his hair that had been styled to a point, his now even more expensive looking suit and his face. God, if anything had changed the most it had to be his face. You remembered the serious, but awkwardly adorable way he used to present himself, however unintentionally. The soft lines of his face - 

He cleared his throat, interrupting your comparisons. “I have come to be the sole owner of a nightclub and I wanted to offer you a position as a bartender. I remember your cocktails being quite the success.” 

Who were you to refuse?

 

\----

 

Pining was something you did well. You excelled in it, actually. If it was a school subject, there was no doubt you would pass the class with flying colors. 

That didn’t mean you didn’t hate pining. It was heartbreakingly frustrating how easily you managed to fade into the background of every potential romantic partner’s life. Well, it was more of a mixed bag. You’d hate the object of your affections a little for forgetting you while simultaneously thanking the gods because without interacting with them you forgot why you fell in the first place. 

With Oswald, you didn’t have that luxury. He talked to you. Casual conversations, of course, but it made your stomach do flips all the same. It made you fall harder, even if you were discussing something as dull as the weather. 

It was like a routine you two had. In the early hours of the morning when everybody had already gone home Oswald would come out of his office, where you imagine he’d been doing some form of paperwork, and sit down on a bar stool while you cleaned glasses. He would inquire about your day, you would return the question and then ask about his mother. She was an interesting woman - you’d met her your first day on the job. She’s sauntered up to the bar in her frilled, pale yellow dress that had seen better times and asked in her heavy german (had it been german?) accent for a glass of wine to ‘celebrate her dear Oswald.'

You’d popped open a bottle of the finest red wine you could find, because she had looked like a red wine sorta gal, and poured it into a fancy looking glass you’d found at the back of the cabinet the other day. Gertrud had loved the glass and the wine and reached over the bar to pat your cheek. 

“Thank you, dear.” Her accent was heavy but you could hear the sure approval in her voice and you grinned back at her before going back to wiping the bar. “Oswald is lucky to have an employee like you, who is so wise about these things. Oh, my dear Oswald always had good sense, I know.” 

She talks to your about her son - telling you, really, because you don’t manage to get a word in edgewise. Not that you really wanted to, you would be content just listening to Gertrud’s stories about Oswald all night. However, you had other customers to tend to and as you whirled around behind the bar from one patron to another you learned more about Oswald in half an hour than you had in a half a year of knowing the guy. And somewhere during that, ‘Mr. Cobblepot’ had transformed to ‘Oswald’ in your mind.

After that half an hour, she pushed herself away from the counter and out of the corner of your eye you saw the host of the night himself approach the bar in time to hear Gertrud say “Next time, I will bring you his baby pictures! Such an adorable child he was. He melted hearts! I was the envy of every mother on the street!”

The embarrassment at being caught talking behind his back (even though it hadn’t exactly been you) was worth it to see Oswald freeze in place and flush. Suddenly, you were transported back to when you first met him. You’d been behind the same bar and Oswald had been holding an umbrella and he’d been livelier and just seemed…happier. 

Then Oswald was rushing towards you both and grabbing his mother’s hand, laughing nervously. 

“Mom, you’ve been drinking, we should go home.”

He’s hurrying her towards the door and he glances back at you, his pale blue eyes locking onto your own (color) pair, and you stare at each other for a few seconds but it seems to stretch longer than that but then they’re gone and Gabe is closing up the bar. You brace yourself against the bar, forearms laying flat against the mahogany counter and you’re reaching for a bottle of good scotch you usually saved for the more prestigious visitors of 'Oswald’s', thinking to yourself. 

The scotch burns.

**Author's Note:**

> This was taken from my other account on deviantart.


End file.
